


the honeymoon phase

by idolrapper (wonwoo)



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, M/M, Rating May Change, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 18:01:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9560549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonwoo/pseuds/idolrapper
Summary: What happens in Vegas, doesn't always stay in Vegas.(in which Mingyu and Wonwoo wake up married.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> i've honest to god been planning to write this fic since 2015 but never got around to it until now. for now, please suspend your disbelief about the legality of same-sex marriage in south korea, i haven't decided where to go with that yet.
> 
> enjoy! ♡

When Wonwoo wakes up, _Here Comes the Bride_ is stuck in his head.

The one lyric he knows is on a loop, swelling the killer headache behind his left eyebrow. A seasick groan leaves his mouth. He sits up, slowly so as not to upset his stomach, and takes stock of his environment. There are alarm bells—he’s only in his underwear (wouldn’t be a first), there is pink glitter all over the bed (odd, but in that morning after sort of way where you just accept it, and distantly pity the cleaner), and the curtains are flung open (nothing short of horrifying)—and then there’s Mingyu.

“Hyung?” comes Mingyu’s muffled voice. He rolls over onto his side, wriggling helplessly like a caught fish. There’s a pillow crease on his cheek, and his hand is stuck down his boxers, peeking out the other end. “Good morning.”

Wonwoo looms over Mingyu, poking a finger into his chest. His pointedly bare chest. Fuck. “You,” he huffs, “You’re going to give me answers.”

It’s a ridiculous cycle, Mingyu’s reaction: he smirks, _am I?_ then his eyes widen, mouth falling open like he’s belatedly realised who he’s responding to, and he goes completely pale. “Um—um, well, you see,” he stutters, moving to place the hand that’d been down his pants on Wonwoo’s knee.

Wonwoo shouts, “Get your Mingyu cooties away from me!” and topples over, right into the glitter. He lays there. Sighs. He did plan to look for a souvenir to bring back to Seoul today. 

Meanwhile, Mingyu’s ignored the question and made himself busy rearranging their pillows—or _his_ pillows, Wonwoo mentally corrects, this hotel room is Mingyu’s and not his and of course Mingyu has fucking glitter on his bed—and smoothing them down. 

“Spit it out, Mingyu,” Wonwoo says. Mingyu goes tight-lipped, eyeing him hesitantly. “Did we fuck?” 

When Mingyu doesn’t answer, save for a short gasp at Wonwoo’s bluntness, Wonwoo naturally comes to the conclusion that they did. A molten hot shiver trickles down his spine. And then he kind of can’t stop glancing at Mingyu’s dick. And, “I mean. I guess it’s kind of weird, but it’s not _that_ weird? It makes sense, if you think about it, absence makes the heart grow fonder? Maybe a little too fond in this case but like, platonic reunion sex is totally a thing. It’s not a big deal. People do it all the time.”

Mingyu nods. The tips of his ears are red.

Wonwoo picks glitter out of his fingernails.

“You don’t remember a thing from last night, do you?”

Wonwoo looks up. His eyebrows crinkle in concentration. He thinks back to the night before, to throwing back jelly shot after jelly shot until his tongue was rainbow, to avoiding talking to Mingyu because five years is a long time not to speak to your best friend, to Soonyoung clambering onto the hotel bar and announcing, in disgustingly explicit detail, exactly what he was going to do to Joshua on their wedding night. There’s nothing but haze after the fourth casino they’d crashed—where Seungcheol had lost his gold Rolex and six hundred thousand won to a burly Italian, and curled up in a ball on the sidewalk, clutching tightly onto Wonwoo’s hand. To a guy like Seungcheol, six hundred thousand won was most likely chump change, but Seungcheol kept moaning about how gambling is a disease and that when he’s the President of Korea he’s going to eradicate it forever, and all Wonwoo could say was _IknowIknowIknowIknow_. 

Wonwoo shakes his head. He doesn’t remember.

“Don’t kill me, hyung, but,” Mingyu begins to say, which most likely means Wonwoo will want to kill him. He reaches out—this time, Wonwoo doesn’t shrink away—and takes Wonwoo’s left hand with both of his.

On Wonwoo’s ring finger—delicate, with a gaudy turquoise stone fixed to the centre, the sort of thing you’d find in the jewellery stand of a hipster clothing store—is a silver band.

They’re in Las Vegas. It’s a wedding ring.

“It’s a wedding ring,” Mingyu states.

“You know,” Wonwoo says, slowly, “I kind of wish you told me we had sex.”

 

 

If there is one thing Wonwoo stands by, it’s that marriage is futile. Romance is dead. There are bigger fish to fry. A whole ocean of them to catch.

So, when Soonyoung calls to inform him that Joshua’s proposed and they’re going to have the messiest, most memorable wedding in the US of fucking A, Wonwoo’s immediate reaction is to tell Soonyoung that he’s crazy.

“It’s going to be sick,” Soonyoung says, sounding giddy with excitement and love and whatnot. “The bachelor party’s in Vegas. Then we’re off to LA for a respectable wedding with hyung’s family. Then back home with _my_ family. And _then_ to like, a million rounds of hot sex on some secluded beach in the Maldives. I’m the luckiest man alive, Wonwoo.”

Wonwoo cradles his phone under his chin, studying the inside of his fridge. There’s a half-eaten bowl of ramen covered in clingwrap, a bottle of wine (a housewarming gift from Soonyoung) and a single orange. Dinner. “Listen, I’m happy for you, but I can’t afford to fly halfway across the world. I just moved back to Seoul the other week. Can’t you settle for me attending _one_ of your weddings?”

“Wonwoo, remember how Shua and I went trekking across Europe two years ago? Visited your weird little joint in Berlin? The image of you wearing that dumb beret and smoking a cigar and quoting Nietzsche is gonna haunt me in the afterlife, probably.”

“Shut up,” Wonwoo mutters, shoving the ramen into the microwave, “The company you keep.”

“Anyway, do you see what I’m getting at? Joshua’s parents are _loaded_. It’s how we met in college, through Seungcheol hyung. He and Joshua go way back, chaebol circles and all that.”

Granted Wonwoo doesn’t know Joshua that well, but from the calm and careful way he carries himself, he’d never have guessed Joshua to be born into money. At least not Seungcheol’s brand of born into money. Then again, Soonyoung always did display the tendencies of a gold digger. Back in high school, he’d sidled up to Junhui, this exchange student from China whose dad was rumoured to own a mining company, and took it upon himself to take Junhui sightseeing. Soonyoung had shown up to homeroom the next day with a bright hickey barely hidden by his shirt collar and a god-awful diamond bracelet around his wrist.

“He’d pay for me?” Wonwoo says, disbelieving. The microwave dings. He cracks apart a pair of wooden chopsticks.

“Yeah,” Soonyoung replies. There it is again, that dreamy tone in his voice. Wonwoo tries to ignore it, lest it be contagious. “I get to bring six friends. So does he.”

Wonwoo hums. “That’s the thing about a gay wedding, isn’t it? You only have one bachelor party ‘cause you’ve got all the same friends, and then that defeats the purpose of a bachelor party ‘cause you’re both gonna be there.”

“Is that a yes?” Soonyoung says smugly. 

“Fuck you, loverboy,” Wonwoo shoots back. He lets Soonyoung listen to the noisy slurp of his noodles before replying, “It’s a yes.”

 

 

The story goes like this:

Wonwoo took a gap year after high school and never came back. 

He city-hopped, Hong Kong to Athens to London to Bucharest to Tokyo, and eventually settled down in Berlin. He’d attended this backwater liberal arts college, and when he finally found it in himself to drag himself outta the pretentious circlejerk that was your Tuesday evening lit class, he got a job at an orphanage teaching kids to write.

He fell in love. 

The End. 

(In many ways, they were the shortest five years of Wonwoo’s life. Like being in outer space, setting up camp on some alien planet, where time was warped. One hour felt like one second, a lifetime felt like one year.)

(But in most, he missed Mingyu like hell. The more he drifted away, the harder it became to find his way back, the more stir crazy he became, the more it seemed like the sun never set.)

 

 

Wonwoo returned to South Korea because: he was offered a position at an elementary school in Gangnam, and his mother wanted him to. The salary outweighed his sense of filial piety by a landslide, but still. It was time for him to come home. 

Two weeks before Soonyoung’s call, Wonwoo’s sitting cross-legged on the couch of his family’s poky Changwon flat, in Bohyuk’s university hoodie and faded sweatpants. He has a bowl of lukewarm dubu jjigae in his lap, and time to spare before he can move to Seoul. The living room is illuminated by the television, volume turned down to a bare murmur. 

Wonwoo’s father walks in for the 9PM news, taking a seat in the armchair with a rumbly sigh that comes from deep in his bones. “SBS, please,” he demands.

Wonwoo fumbles for the remote and changes the channel.

The last Wonwoo had heard, Kim Mingyu was majoring in Atmospheric Science at KNU. Mingyu had texted him a photo of his acceptance letter, and a selca of his smile, a summery bliss about him. None of the _what now?_ aimlessness that Wonwoo became plagued with after _he_ graduated. Mingyu was barely eighteen then.

So, one can imagine Wonwoo’s shock when the weather report comes on, and there is the face of his best friend, matured some, hair pushed back, looking inexplicably delectable as he tells Wonwoo and the rest of the nation that they’re in for a 30 degree scorcher tomorrow. He stands tall, palm gesturing at each city in South Korea. 

“Ah, our Mingyu,” Wonwoo’s dad says, like _our_ Mingyu has just set out a mini feast on their round dining table, like he’s just fixed the leaky tap Wonwoo’s dad has been scratching his head over for days, like he isn’t twenty three years old and on national fucking TV. 

“I-is this a recent development?” Wonwoo asks, making a flailing motion at the television, where Mingyu is smiling a bright and practiced smile.

His father fixes him a puzzled look. “He started working for SBS last year. A good boy, that Mingyu. He should visit us more often.”

“He should,” Wonwoo mumbles in agreement, watching Mingyu fade away on the screen. 

Later, when he’s sitting by the open window of his old bedroom, his mother having just shut the door after bringing him a mug of chocolate milk, he texts Soonyoung, _no one ever told me mingyu was a TV personality... don’t u think that’s something i would like to know?!_

 _u should’ve known_ , Soonyoung replies, and it is so unlike him, that Wonwoo just stares. Gulps. Lets out a breathy laugh when Soonyoung follows that up with, _dude, the entire country’s fckn in love with him, he’s called the Weather God_

_holy shit, i’m the worst_

_yeah_ , Soonyoung’s message reads, _better get those flowers and chocolates ready, jeon wonwoo_

Wonwoo cannot explain the flip his stomach does reading that last text. 

That, or he doesn’t want to.

 _no thanks_ , Wonwoo shoots back, taking a deep, soothing breath, _who needs flowers and chocolates when u’ve got a face like mine_

**Author's Note:**

> super short chapter as a feeler of sorts, the updates to come will probably (hopefully) be longer!


End file.
